Christmas in Ashland
by persephonesfolly
Summary: It's almost Christmas and Edward is alone for the first time since his transformation.  How much trouble can a mind-reading young vampire get into?  What will he do when one act of kindness results in unexpected consequences?  Canon Pre-Twilight story.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or plots created by Stephanie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

CHAPTER ONE: December 1919

"Are you sure you'll be fine on your own?"

Carlisle's words and thoughts were suffused with a worried tone that I found mildly offensive.

"Of course. It's been two years now," I reminded him.

Carlisle's employer, Dr. Harrow, had asked him to travel by train to Chicago for an important medical symposium. As the newly hired and outwardly youngest doctor on staff, Carlisle couldn't very well refuse the honor, especially since Dr. Harrow chose him because he knew Carlisle was familiar with Chicago, and Dr. Harrow had a terrible sense of direction. Carlisle never could resist an appeal for help.

"I could say you've fallen ill."

His mind immediately began running through the sorts of illnesses serious enough to be considered an excuse for him to beg off the trip.

"No," I said sharply.

Instantly I read the hurt on my adopted father's face and in his thoughts as he tried to understand my anger. I consciously softened my voice as I tried to explain.

"I know that I still…struggle."

That was an understatement. Every time I caught a whiff of human prey my mouth still began to fill with venom which had to be choked back lest I start drooling like a rabid animal. The thirst was a constant ache. I wouldn't have trusted myself a year ago to be anywhere near humans, but time marches on, and with Carlisle's help I'd been able to make short excursions into town. His presence helped me to restrain myself from draining every human that walked by.

Carlisle nodded understandingly, without a trace of condemnation in his thoughts. It's what I both loved and hated about him, that constant saintliness. He'd conquered the beast within. I, on the other hand…

"I'll likely always struggle," I admitted grudgingly. "But it's better now. I'm better now. Allow me to prove it. Trust me just this once."

I wasn't playing fair. I knew how Carlisle anguished over the risks of taking me out into society. I also knew the depth of his consideration for my feelings and how he tried hard not to seem overbearing or dictatorial. I often caught glimpses of his memories of Italy and the Volturi. They ruled their domain with an iron hand. Carlisle didn't want to be like them.

I contemplated reminding Carlisle that keeping me imprisoned in the house was exactly the sort of thing Aro would do if he didn't trust a vampire, but stopped short. What sort of a creature had I become? A pang of conscience struck me to the core. Carlisle's memories of his relationship with the Volturi were conflicted enough without my interference.

He gathered his thoughts and came to a decision.

"You're right, Edward. I do trust you. Please forgive me for ever giving the impression that I don't."

He was sincere, and beginning to berate himself mentally for a fault that didn't exist.

"There's nothing to forgive," I said lightly.

Walking past the piano that dominated our front parlor, I leaned down and picked up the leather satchel at Carlisle's feet, careful not to crush the handle as I lifted it.

"Go on, Chicago is waiting," I told him as I handed it to him. "And so is Dr. Harrow, assuming he made it to the station without getting lost."

Carlisle smiled, gracious in defeat, and took the satchel.

"Thank you, Edward."

I helped him on with his heavy wool coat, a necessary prop when venturing outside among the humans who felt the cold and bundled up against it. He wrapped a muffler around his neck and placed his favorite brown felt hat on his head.

"It will only be for a few days. We'll hunt when we get back. Perhaps we'll find a mountain lion or two?"

Carlisle was thinking that finding a mountain lion would be just the thing to get me in the mood for Christmas. He worried that I was losing touch with human traditions which once meant a lot to me.

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes at the concern in his thoughts, I merely nodded. Carlisle missed his calling as a mother hen. I was seventeen years old when I died, not seven.

With a last glance over his shoulder, he left through the front door. I stood at the parlor window and watched him trudge down the lane through the snow until his thoughts disappeared from range.

Blessed silence.

Or as silent as it got for a vampire. I could still hear a family of mice moving restlessly in their sleep in the attic above, the tiny amount of blood in their bodies not nearly as attractive as the siren call of human blood.

The wood frame house creaked a bit and icicles dripped outside from the eaves. In the distance a neighbor's herd of cows lowed every so often.

My mental landscape, however, was silent save for my own thoughts. Walking over to the piano, our third one since coming to Ashland, I ran my hand over the keys. I was careful now not to press so hard when playing staccato. Ivory was fragile.

Setting aside the Christmas music the ever-hopeful Carlisle brought home a few days ago, I settled on Rimsky-Korsakov and filled the house with music, all night and well into the next day.

Eventually even music palled and I walked outside, not bothering with a coat. The clouds were grey and threatening. It seemed it might snow again. How very seasonal.

The sound of a horse drawn wagon came to me. It was one of our neighbors on their way to town no doubt. I retreated to the house rather than allow him to see me outside in my shirtsleeves and wonder at it.

I watched through the window as the heavy wagon went past. Farmer Ashe was in a festive mood. He'd tucked a sprig of holly in his hatband and was humming a Christmas carol as he drove down the lane.

I wondered if my street back home in Chicago would be decorated this year. We used to go all out with garlands on the porch railings, wreaths on the doors, and Christmas trees visible in every window. The twins who lived down the street draped paper chains all over the evergreen shrub in their yard the last Christmas I spent there. Then the snow fell and melted and their colorful paper chains turned to pulp.

They'd come outside and cried over it, two little boys wailing in the snow. I'd tried to comfort them. At least I think I had. I couldn't remember what I'd said. The memories of my life before Carlisle were fading. It was like looking at tintypes of the great grandparents I'd never known. The hoop skirts and dated Civil War uniforms were a curiosity, nothing more. I knew my parents treasured those photographs, but to me they were just pictures of strangers.

The twins died before I did, the first casualties on our block. Influenza struck our street hard. I wondered who was left to leave out garlands and wreaths.

Walking into the kitchen, I sat down at the pine table to practice what Carlisle called 'human mannerisms'. Humans sat after standing for a time.

Whoever survived the influenza back on my street had undoubtedly decorated their houses by now. Life went on, for some.

Carlisle tried to interest me in getting a Christmas tree. I'd crushed his hopes by refusing. What was there to celebrate after all? Why decorate? It's not as if Carlisle could invite anyone from work over to our home so there was really no need to deck the halls. I couldn't be trusted in an enclosed space with helpless prey. It was one thing to walk around town with Carlisle at my side, ready to whisk me away if I moved to strike. It was quite another to be trapped indoors with my natural food source and not eat it.

The first year after Carlisle turned me, Christmas came and went without either of us noticing it. We stayed in a hunting cabin far away from towns or farms, with nothing but wilderness all around. After that first year, Carlisle found us this cottage in Ashland, Wisconsin. It was just outside the city limits. Our neighbors were farmers who kept to themselves and left us alone.

I liked the cottage. Carlisle brought in some of the pieces he'd had in Europe. Some were simple and stark like the wood cross from his father's parsonage. Others were almost painfully ornate, like his favorite armchair, a hideous Victorian horsehair monstrosity. I wondered what my mother would have thought of it.

Frowning, I tried to decide if she'd have hated or loved it. I couldn't remember her taste in furniture. She'd moved into my father's house when she married him. His mother, my grandmother, was still living at the time so the furniture in the house was hers. Grandmother Rose died when I was a small child. I couldn't remember her face, just her name. I couldn't remember my mother's parents at all, and I knew they'd lived a lot longer than Grandma Rose.

Why? Why remember one thing and not the other?

I pounded my fist on the table in irritation and sucked in a breath in dismay as splinters flew.

Wonderful.

If Carlisle came back to find a shattered kitchen table he'd never leave me alone again. I dropped to my knees to survey the damage.

The table leg would need replacing. So would the metal support that attached it to the underside of the table. The tabletop had a bit of a dent in it, but it was the leg which had borne the brunt of my ill humor.

Disgusted at myself, I sank back on my heels. I'd have to go to town to buy a replacement strut and wood for a new table leg. Carlisle had tools in the shed out back, and I knew I could fashion a leg like the other three, but I needed aged pine to shape.

I'd wait until just before closing time. Even though it was close to Christmas, I didn't think there'd be many holiday shoppers in a hardware store.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, and then dropped my hand abruptly as I realized what I was doing. Carlisle said it wasn't uncommon for certain human traits to be carried over into our strange new lives. I'd loved music before I died and still enjoyed it, but pinching my nose was a stupid thing to do. I used to do it when I felt a headache coming on.

Carlisle often thought it was an expression of my frustration, and used it to gauge my reactions. I had a lot of things to be frustrated about, but that didn't mean I wanted to show it.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw that the light was changing. With the shorter winter days, darkness came quickly. It was time to start walking to town if I wanted to hold myself to a human pace. It seemed an appropriate penance for my earlier untoward display of vampiric strength.

Remembering to grab a coat and wrap a wool muffler around my neck, I ventured outdoors and into the snowy lane.

Outside had a life all its own. As I walked down the lane I breathed in a variety of scents, sights, and sounds. I could see melting snow dripping from the trees, hear the thoughts of a rabbit searching for food, and a hawk flying high overhead.

Their thoughts were easy to ignore. It wouldn't be that way in town. I enjoyed my mental solitude while it lasted.

The closer I ventured into town, the more the cacophony rose around me.

'_Got no money for presents. What'll I do?'_

A day worker, big, burly, and full of tempting blood, lumbered past.

'_Bicarbonate of soda, eggs, yes definitely more eggs. Do I need flour? No, there's at least a few more cupfuls left, and the recipe only calls for two…'_

A housewife, dragging a petulant girl by the hand, swept by.

'_Why do I have to carry the shopping basket? I look like a maid-servant. Betsy's family sends their maid to do all their shopping.'_

And on and on it went, like cattle lowing continuously in my mind.

I stuck my chin to my chest and kept my head lowered. I felt nothing for these people and their small-minded concerns, nothing but a near overwhelming desire to stop their mental chatter once and for all, with my teeth.

Clenching my fists, I buried them in my pockets and walked on. It was far more difficult to walk through crowds without Carlisle's reassuring thoughts to distract me, but I could do it.

At a crossroads I saw a bunch of Christmas carolers, milling about like a flock of sheep. Their shepherd, no, their choir leader, herded them together and commanded them to start singing. Several were off key.

I fled down a side street. It was bad enough that I had to hear their petty thoughts about each other and the choir leader, but to be subjected to their amateur performance? It was too much to bear.

The side street was a residential area, lower middle class by the looks of it since the houses were small with tiny yards in front. Most of the males weren't home from work yet, and the thoughts of their females were comfortingly mundane.

All but one.

'_No, oh no. How? I was only gone for an hour. Why? I can't believe this is happening.'_

Distress, sharp and panicky, colored the woman's thoughts, which were jumbled like broken glass. There were other thoughts as well, coming from an immature and sleepy mind. It was a child, wondering why his mama was so upset, why her grip was so tight.

I stopped dead in the dirty slush of the street and turned my head toward the house from whence the thoughts were emanating. It was a small, unremarkable two story home behind a picket fence and a few snow covered rosebushes, hibernating under their icy blanket. Through the open door I saw the back of a woman, the top of a child's knitted cap just visible over her shoulder.

Fear thrilled through her.

'_What if he's still here? Dear God, what shall I do? I have Teddy with me.'_

I smirked a bit. Whoever 'he' was, he wasn't in the house anymore. I could sense and smell only two humans inside, the woman and the child. There was another smell, very familiar to me due to my recent issues with the table.

I moved closer to the gate in the picket fence. The woman began backing out of her doorway and I saw the splintered wood on the ground. Her movement was sending the scent of pine wafting my way.

The door was hanging off one hinge. The other was wrenched and useless. The lock was pulled completely out of the door, which had splintered when someone jimmied it open, probably with a pry bar.

Her hysteria was rising. I felt the predator within me stir and take notice. Chasing a panicked animal was easy. They were so very predictable. She'd take the path of least resistance, dodging to the right back between her house and the one next to it, since sturdy bushes blocked the passage between her home and the one to the left. Once she saw me blocking her route to the street, dodging right was the only logical option left to her.

I could be on her the moment she was out of sight of the road, and fast enough to prevent her from screaming. Her nearest neighbor wouldn't even hear me pounce if I played it right. The child would be easy too.

I bit my lip, hard, and swallowed back a mouthful of venom.

She turned and saw me at the gate, eyes wide and frightened, carrying her boy in her arms.

"Ma'am? Are you alright?" I heard myself asking.

Perhaps Carlisle was right about human traits carrying over. My manners were intact, even though they were competing with my more lethal impulses.

"What?"

For a second I saw myself through her eyes and thoughts.

'_Oh, it's a boy. He's beautiful. That hair, I've never seen such a marvelous red. Oh dear, he's staring at me. I must look a fright. What am I doing? The burglar could still be here.'_

As her thoughts wrenched themselves away from me and back to her predicament, she tightened her grip on her child.

Irritated at the constant squeezing, he began to wail.

She was an inch away from wailing herself. Something had to be done.

"He has quite the pair of lungs on him, doesn't he?" I observed with a rueful smile.

Carlisle always said that our looks could beguile, that it was one of the things that made us so dangerous to susceptible humans. I hoped he was right. The child's cries were beginning to grate on my nerves.

She gave a strained sounding laugh.

"Yes, he does," she answered, bouncing him gently as she glanced back worriedly through the open doorway.

"I see your door is broken. May I take a look?"

'_His eyes are such an unusual color, like warm honey. What could be the harm?'_ she asked herself_. 'He's only just arrived, so he can't be the one who broke in. If the burglar is still here he'll hear the lad's voice and be scared away.'_ It was my supposed ability to scare away miscreants with my voice that decided her.

"Please do," she said, stepping back to allow me access to the doorway.

I opened the gate in the low picket fence and made my way up the step and onto the porch, carefully breathing through my mouth and not my nose. It only helped a little bit.

"You'll need a new lock and another hinge," I told her.

I ran my hand down the sharp edges of the splayed wood.

"The paint may need some touching up as well."

The door was a rich brown color. Judging from the layers I could see where the wood was broken, it had been red and then black before its current coat of paint.

She moved closer to me to take a look, the child in her arms quieting to an occasional whimper.

So close, so warm and pulsating with life's blood. I willed myself to stay still.

"Thieves was it? Perhaps you should check to see what was stolen," I suggested as calmly as I could. I needed distance from her.

"Oh yes, of course."

Dread took hold of her mind as she moved slowly into the house. I remained outside taking huge gulps of non-human scented air.

I saw through her eyes the mess the robber left in his wake. Drawers were pulled out, contents strewn everywhere. A small Christmas tree was lying on its side, knocked over in the robber's haste.

"Oh no," she sighed. I heard her lay the child down on the ottoman as she sank to her knees by the tree.

'_The presents are gone. I saved up so long for Albert's watch. Now I've nothing to give him and Christmas is so close. What shall I do? Teddy won't notice, he's too young to really understand, but what of my mother and father?'_ She searched frantically through broken ornaments and fallen pine needles. _'Where's the scarf I knitted? The sewing kit? My sister's perfume?' _

Her fingers paused and she sucked in a breath as she encountered broken glass. The scent of lavender wafted through the room as she carefully gathered broken pieces of the perfume bottle together. It was the only gift the thief hadn't taken.

'_Why? Why did this have to happen?'_

I didn't want to witness the woman's desolated thoughts. It wasn't really any of my business, but a gentleman never left a lady in distress without trying to help.

"I'll go to the hardware store and see if I can find a suitable lock," I called out from the doorway.

The smell of lavender was not overpowering enough to mask the alluring scent of her blood.

"Yes, thank you. That would be nice," she said, trying in vain to sound as if she wasn't crying. I pretended not to notice.

With a brief wave of goodbye, I left her there, a small plump woman with her shawl slipping off one shoulder, holding broken glass in her hands.

The hardware store was nearly deserted, just as I'd hoped. I made my purchases quickly and left. I had to be crazy, spending time around humans, placing myself in a state of constant temptation. I set my own supplies by the picket fence and made an appropriately human amount of noise opening the gate and tramping up to the porch.

She met me at the door and I forced a smile on my lips.

"I can't thank you enough for doing this," she babbled.

She'd switched from hysteria and grief to gratitude. I saw from her recent memories that the thief had taken some of her jewelry and her husband's good set of cuff links from upstairs. She felt unsafe in her own home, and desperately wanted the door fixed since her husband wasn't due home until tomorrow.

"I couldn't sleep soundly tonight knowing that anyone could come in from off the street. Can I get you anything? A glass of cider? Coffee? Tea?"

Her eyes were brown, like her hair which was pulled back in a low bun on the back of her neck. She reminded me of a plump little wren. She had no idea she was asking a monster to tea.

"Tea, if it's not too much trouble."

I knew from the firewood stacked along the side of the house and the lack of a chimney that she didn't have an electric stove. The stovepipe protruding from the roof was a dead giveaway. Tea would require lighting the wood-burning stove and putting the kettle on to boil. It would keep her in the kitchen and out of my way.

"Oh it's no trouble at all."

She smiled and I saw that she had dimples on either cheek, which only appeared when her mouth creased. I watched her retreat into the kitchen. The fashions of the day were not kind, the narrow skirts serving to accentuate her short stature and wide hips.

Her sincerity surprised me. She wanted to be busy doing something for me, as she was not ready to face cleaning the upstairs mess which the thief had left for her. Her son's crib was untouched and she'd laid him down for a nap, promising herself that she'd tidy up his room before any others.

She was debating whether she should use the good china or a simple mug. Not that I cared. I wouldn't be drinking the tea, or anything else, I reminded myself sharply and got to work.

Blocking her thoughts as best I could, I concentrated on replacing the broken hinge and lock without snapping the metal pieces or splintering the wood even further. Darkness was falling, and the woman was preoccupied in the other room so I indulged myself and worked at vampiric speed, finishing well before the kettle started to squeal. I swung the door open wide to test the hinge. It held firm.

She'd decided on the good china. It was white with dark blue accents and tiny pink roses strewn across the porcelain.

"Here you are," she said, passing me the steaming cup and saucer as she glanced over at my workmanship.

As I took it from her gingerly, our fingers brushed.

"Oh," she gasped. "Your hands are so cold. Would you like to come into the kitchen to warm up?"

Misplaced remorse swept through her. I didn't mind the cold, not anymore.

"No, I really must be on my way."

I glanced down at the cup, momentarily at a loss as to what to do with it. I really didn't want to drink it. I knew that if I did I'd have to vomit it up later.

"It's Earl Grey," the woman confided. "You probably noticed that it smells a bit different."

She was beginning to worry that I wouldn't like it.

"It smells wonderful," I lied.

There had to be some way to distract her so I could toss the liquid out the door.

"Almost as good as that other smell from before," I continued. "Was it lavender?"

She clasped her hands sadly, and nodded, eyes starting to tear up.

"I bought a bottle of perfume for my sister. The thief broke it."

"What a shame. Is that your son crying?"

Appealing to her mothering instincts worked perfectly. Not only did she turn her head in the direction of her child's room, she also took a few steps toward the stairs to listen. It only took a second for me to pitch the noxious fluid out the open doorway and onto the snow, returning the cup to its saucer as gently as possible.

"I don't hear anything," she said reluctantly, returning her attention to me.

"My mistake," I apologized, smiling and lifting the empty teacup to my lips, pretending to drink it down.

She watched with a gentle smile on her face, completely taken in by my act.

"Thank you for your hospitality Mrs…"

I realized I didn't know her name. I knew from her thoughts that her son was named Teddy and her husband was Albert, but people rarely think of themselves by name.

"Kendall," she supplied with a blush. "Mary Kendall."

The rush of gratitude in her thoughts was embarrassing. I'd only fixed her door; she didn't need to regard me as though I'd slain a dragon.

"I'm Edward. Edward…Cullen." I'd nearly said Masen.

"Here," I held out the cup for her to take. "Thank you for the tea. I really have to be going now."

Without waiting for a response, I stepped away from the open door and kept walking.

I heard her walk to the doorway and call out a goodbye, but didn't turn my head. As soon as the door closed I retrieved the supplies I'd purchased for my own repair job from where I'd left them by the picket fence. I wondered idly who'd stolen the Kendalls' Christmas gifts. It seemed a particularly churlish thing to do. They obviously weren't well off, just a modest middle class family. It must have been a crime of opportunity, not forethought.

The streets of Ashland were getting busy with people hurrying home from work or shopping. Some were darting out to buy last minute gifts from stores that stayed open late. For a season that supposedly promoted peace on earth and good will towards men there was a remarkable amount of ill temper and anxiety. I gritted my teeth and endured the swirling mass of thoughts and scents until I could take it no more.

Darting down a less busy side street, I decided to cut through the poor part of town and rejoin the road leading back to the cottage on the outskirts of Ashland. I'd have to cut through a field or two when I reached the end of town, but it was worth it. I could still hear the thoughts of people in the dingy apartment buildings, but they were muted by distance.

It was the faint scent of lavender that caught my attention first. A basement apartment window had been left open a crack to let air in. That was the source of the smell. It was the same aroma from the broken bottle on Mrs. Kendall's floor.

I turned to stare at the dirty grey steps leading down to the basement apartment. The thoughts of its occupant clinched it. I'd found the thief.

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: This chapter, indeed this whole story, is dedicated to Coleen561 for all her help and support.

CHAPTER TWO

'_This'll fetch a pretty penny.'_

I saw through the thief's eyes the image of a pocket watch, golden and gleaming by the light of a dying coal fire. No wonder he'd left the window open. The fumes were pungent. They nearly overpowered the lavender scent clinging to the thief's clothes.

He opened the watch, swearing a little when he couldn't figure out the catch at first.

'_What's this? An inscription? To Albert Love Always Mary?'_

He set the watch down abruptly and pondered the new development.

'_This will lessen its value.'_

Dejection rolled over him.

'_I'll never get enough to pay off Carlo, never. Why did I let Ronald talk me into that poker game? I knew it was too rich for my pocketbook. Everyone knows Carlo is a dangerous man. Now he holds my note.'_

He envisioned the dirty scrap of paper where he'd written his 'I owe you'.

'_I'll never be able to pay up by Christmas.'_

I saw the thief's hands. He held them up in front of his face and was staring at the way they were shaking in fear. Fingers curled as he clenched them into fists and let them drop.

'_I can't do this anymore, I can't. My poor nerves. I thought my heart would stop the whole time I was in there. I'm not cut out for a life of crime.'_

He picked up the watch again and stared at it as a wave of self-loathing went through him.

'_Better to get beaten within an inch of my life. At least that way I won't end up in jail.' _

His thoughts became aggrieved.

'_I paid off the amount I lost at the game. It isn't fair that Carlo keeps raising the interest. The way he has it set up it'll never stop. He's going to come after me and beat me, I just know it.'_

I caught a glimpse of wood planking, and then darkness descended as the thief closed his eyes, laid his forehead against the table, and began to sob.

Backing away, I forced my feet to move away from the building.

I hated the man for being weak, for being a thief, but most of all I hated him for making me feel sorry for him. What right had he to my pity? It wasn't my problem. I had a table to fix.

My footsteps slowed.

If it wasn't my problem, why did I feel guilty walking away? I could break into the thief's apartment, take back the gifts and deliver them to Mrs. Kendall's house, but what then? How would I explain finding the gifts? And where would that leave the thief? He'd be free to rob some other poor family, and with the level of desperation I'd felt from him, he'd be convincing himself soon enough to go out and rob again.

I could break his leg, forcing him to stay inside, but that would make me just like Carlo, the man he feared. Besides, Carlisle would never approve. If I miscalculated the tiniest bit and broke the skin…

Shuddering at the thought of fresh blood, I knew I'd never be able to hold back. It was far too dangerous to contemplate.

Carlo.

He was the real culprit.

I knew what I had to do.

I stashed my purchases down an alley near the apartment building and set off to complete my task.

Three visits to local saloons later, I found a man who believed my story about going to Carlo's to pay off my bed-ridden father's gambling debt. He gave me directions to Carlo's house, making me promise to be discreet since Carlo didn't like doing business where he lived. Only my assurance that my 'father' owed a lot of money, convinced the barkeep to give me the address. Judging by the man's thoughts, Carlo liked money a lot, and tended to be unforgiving towards those who kept him from his money.

Carlo Santorini lived in a nice part of town in a brick house locked behind a tall iron gate. It took less than a second for me to leap over it. There were lights coming from windows on the ground floor. I crouched by the mellowed brick wall, careful to stay out of sight near two French doors that led to a side garden.

Three servants slept on the top floor, a man and two women. On the second floor the innocent chaotic dreams of two children surprised me. A woman slept in the room next to theirs, so recently asleep that she wasn't dreaming yet. Carlo had a wife? A family?

I dismissed the notion as I honed in on the thoughts of the only wakeful occupant of the house. He was half drunk, grumbling mentally about having to put up with his sister and her two children for the holidays.

'_Damn fool, getting himself sent up state for Christmas. Now I'm stuck with Theresa for the next six months until he gets released. Her brats too. Can't throw them out either. I don't want people saying I can't take care of my own kin. It's bad for business.'_

He took another gulp of whiskey, holding up the cut glass drinking cup to admire the color of the liquid.

'_Ah, that's the stuff. That's what it's all about. Good liquor, good food, and fast women. Not that there'll be any of that this Christmas, not with Theresa in the house_,' he thought resentfully, his mind touching briefly on past conquests.

Thankfully, his thoughts moved back to his grievances quickly.

'_Saint Theresa_,' he thought derisively. _'Reading Dickens to the brats and singing bloody Christmas carols are what I have to look forward to each night. I saw her looking at me when she read that bit about Marley and Scrooge. Ungrateful hag. I'm nothing like Scrooge. I'm a real businessman. If people can't pay they deserve what they get.'_

A series of memories filled his mind of people bloodied and crying out for mercy as he or one of his henchmen broke them with bats, saps, and sometimes their bare fists.

'_Besides, I don't believe in ghosts._'

I couldn't have asked for a better opening.

"Are you sure about that?" I growled as I broke the lock on the French doors and strode into the room.

Night air swirled in with me, causing the flames in the fireplace to leap high.

Carlo Santorini's jaw dropped. His glass slipped through his fingers, splashing his trouser leg with whiskey and saturating the Oriental rug at his feet. Shock froze him in his armchair a moment, then he began to react.

He was a heavy man with jet black hair parted in the middle. His eyes were small and set into folds of olive toned flesh. His broad mouth drew up in a snarl.

"Who do you think you are? Get out of my house!"

He was angry, but not fearful, not yet. Placing his hands on the armrests of his overstuffed leather chair, he began to heave his considerable bulk to his feet, only to stop dead as I moved with vampiric speed to prevent it.

One moment I was in the open doorway, the next my hands were on top of his, securing them to the armrests, with my face directly in front of his.

It was dangerous to be so close, but thrilling too in a sense, to know that his life was mine to take or to leave.

He yelped, startled.

'_His eyes, his hands, so cold,'_ came his thoughts, jumbled by fear.

Good. That was exactly what I wanted him to feel.

"What the…What are you?" he stammered.

"Perhaps I'm just a drunken nightmare come to haunt you after too much Dickens," I suggested mildly.

"Or perhaps," I continued, glaring, "I'm your conscience in human form."

I let him ponder that for a second, and then lowered my voice menacingly.

"Or perhaps I really am a ghost."

A nervous smile flitted across his mouth as his mind rejected the thought.

"No, it's not possible. I don't…"

"Believe in ghosts?" I finished his sentence for him. "I know that. I know everything about you, you disgusting parasite."

I lifted my right hand and drew an ice-cold finger down his cheek, stopping it at his jugular vein. I pressed the tip of my fingernail against it lightly, just enough to cause pain but not enough to puncture the skin.

It would be so easy to rip it open. The skin would yield like tissue paper with a flick of my finger.

Venom filled my mouth. My stomach tightened. So close, so tempting was his blood. I swallowed back the venom reluctantly. I had a job to do.

"It would be easy to kill you."

I heard the longing in my voice. So did he. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as his heart rate sped up. I had to swallow back another rush of venom.

Brushing his hand off the armrest, I ripped off the leather and stuffing covered wood and held it up for Santorini to see before tossing it into the fireplace. The flames began to dance and the smell of burnt cowhide filled the room as they began to consume it.

"I could snap your neck just as easily," I informed him.

"What do you want?"

His mind was scrambling for options. He had none. His butler/bodyguard was upstairs asleep. I was stronger and faster. He didn't have a chance of beating me. I'd just demonstrated that.

"Your promissory notes. The gambling debts you've collected."

A frown creased the fat man's face as he mentally ran through the list of everyone who owed him money, trying to come up with the name of a person who could afford to hire out of town muscle. That's how he thought of me, as a hired thug sent to scare him. I suppose it was easier for him to believe than what he was seeing with his own eyes.

"Which one?"

I hesitated for a breath of time, realizing I didn't know the name of the thief. Then I smiled as a solution presented itself.

"All of them."

"What? No! I can't."

He was totaling up the amount he'd lose by releasing the notes. Incredibly, his greed was overcoming his fear.

Brushing his other hand off the remaining armrest, I continued to vandalize the chair by ripping it off as well and tossing it to join the first one in the fire.

Then I laid my hand on top of his trouser covered kneecap, pinching either side of it gently with my thumb and forefinger.

"I can remove other things besides armrests," I said softly.

The stench of urine filled the air as his bladder released.

"Where are the notes?" I asked.

It took a moment for the gibbering mass of his thoughts to calm down enough to form a coherent answer. I waited patiently. It was full dark outside. I could wait all night if I had to.

"Wall safe! The wall safe!"

His brain focused on the image of an oil painting, a hunting scene with huntsmen in red coats on horseback with dogs milling about all around them. I'd seen it as I entered the room.

Straightening my spine, I stepped away from him.

"It's over…" he trailed off for I was already in front of the painting on the wall by the fireplace, moving it aside on its hinge like a window shutter.

"I know where it is," I said sharply as I stared at the newly revealed square metal door.

I left him to ponder that mystery as I grasped the black handle and wrenched the metal door off the safe, letting it drop at my feet with a muted clunk as it hit the carpet.

Inside were two shelves. The bottom contained folders and records of his personal finances, including a deed to the house and a couple of apartment buildings. I bet he was a horrible landlord. Below those I saw a sheaf of paper money and an account book.

I swept them to the floor and took out the folder from the top shelf. A small notebook began to drop out of it. I caught it one handed and opened the folder to find bits and pieces of papers containing I Owe You notes. Curious, I opened the notebook to find the names and amounts owed meticulously recorded. I'd be taking the notebook too.

"These will be going with me. If you happen to remember any of the names or amounts and go after anyone on this list, I'll be back."

Santorini whimpered and pressed his back into what was left of his armchair as I glared at him from across the room.

I walked in a leisurely fashion to the open French doors, turning around as one of his thoughts caught my attention.

"What will you tell people?" I echoed it mockingly. "Tell them that the ghost of Christmas future came to call and in the true Christmas spirit you've decided to forgive all debts and start fresh in the New Year."

As I left, his porcine brain was already beginning to plan more rigged poker games to recoup his losses.

Sighing mentally, I leapt back over the gate, tucking the folder and notebook under my coat.

I had successfully fulfilled my role as the "ghost of Christmas future." Now I would attempt to perform the duties of "the ghost of Christmas present."

o-o-o

It started to snow, the flakes gently wafting down to land on my head and shoulders where they'd stay until I brushed them off. Snow didn't melt on me anymore.

In a short while I was back at the basement apartment.

Ironically, the thief forgot to lock his door. I walked in and surveyed the decrepit two-room abode. The sitting room had a small coal fire, a table and two chairs, and not much else save the smell of the latrine on the floor directly above. The Kendalls' gifts were stacked on the table.

Moving aside the curtain that served as a door between the two rooms, I knelt down by the thief's bed.

His face was relaxed in sleep, unshaven with the sort of blonde hair more the color of ash than of gold. I could smell the remnants of tears on his lashes. And the blood of course, pulsing through his veins. It seemed I was intent on torturing myself.

I shoved the bed, causing it to bump against the wall. The occupant of the next apartment cursed, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

The thief woke with a start to find my hand over his mouth.

"Don't speak, don't call out for help."

He shivered, near paralytic with fear, but was able to nod.

"What do you want?" he asked when I removed my hand.

So much for terrifying him into obedience. Thankfully his fear made him whisper the question.

"Get up. Get dressed and come into the other room."

The other room wasn't much larger, but it had the advantage of an outside window. Suddenly I needed outside air. The man's blood was calling to me.

I stood at the window gulping in the night air through my nose as the thief pulled on some clothes in the other room.

Unlike Santorini, he was resigned to whatever fate awaited him. There was no plotting or planning going through his head, just a calm dread and the sense that he deserved whatever he got. The self-loathing was still in ascendancy. Besides, the only way out of the apartment was through the front door, and I stood between it and him.

"I'm here," he said softly as he came into the room.

I turned away from the window and pointed to the Kendalls' gifts.

"You will re-wrap those. They're going back to their owners."

His shoulders fell.

"Are you going to turn me in to the police?"

"Not if you do exactly what I say."

He pointed to the pile of discarded wrapping paper on the floor.

"I ripped some of it getting it off."

"Do the best you can, and don't forget to include the jewelry and cuff links you stole."

I kept my responses short and stayed by the window and the fresh air. I'd about reached my limit and I didn't trust myself to say much more at the moment, as it would require taking in more of the human scented air from the room.

Carlo Santorini's study had been twice the size of the thief's entire apartment, and he'd had a nice acrid smelling fire going whereas the thief's coal fire had burned out.

The man sat dejectedly at the table, his thoughts focused mainly on how to piece bits of ripped paper together and tie bows over them so that they would stay in place. When he wasn't thinking of that, he was wondering how he'd fare in jail in case I'd lied, or contemplating which bone Carlo planned to break to teach him a lesson.

When the last gift was re-wrapped he set it down and sighed.

"I'm done."

"Not quite."

Fear began to touch his thoughts as he stared up at me, his mind touching again on Carlo Santorini's methods. He wondered if he'd accidentally robbed the house of one of Santorini's friends or relatives, and decided it was just the sort of unlucky thing that happened to men like him.

I moved to cut off that line of thought.

"I want you to write an apology letter to the family whose gifts you took," I told him. "Don't tell the family why you stole their gifts, just apologize for taking them."

He stared at me, mouth agape.

"Do it!"

My sharp tone snapped him out of his mental fog. He walked over to a chest of drawers, found some paper and a pencil and brought them back to the table.

He scratched his head, and then began to write.

'_I'm really sorry I took your presents. It won't happen again ever. I tried to put the wrapping paper back but it doesn't look good. I hope you have a happy Christmas anyhow.'_

The pencil slowed to a stop, the tip pressing down on the last period.

"Should I sign my name?"

He was serious. It surprised me into a laugh.

"Not unless you want to go to jail," I told him. "Just give it here."

The room was so small that I didn't need to move from the window to take the paper as he leaned over to hand it to me.

"What happens now?"

There was absolutely no hope at all in his thoughts or voice, and he avoided my eyes as he asked the question. Again I felt annoyed with him for making me feel sorry for him, but how else could I react to such a creature?

There was a basket in the corner of the room. Judging by the residual scents it was probably the one he used for shopping for his daily bread and other foods. I nodded to it.

"Put the gifts, jewelry and cufflinks in that and leave it on the table."

He did it slowly then stepped away. I swung the basket handle over my arm and stared him in the face.

"What you did was very wrong," I told him, feeling every inch the mother hen I'd accused Carlisle of being in my thoughts just yesterday. "I know you're sorry for it, so I'm leaving you a little gift. Take what's yours and burn the rest."

Drawing Santorini's folder and notebook out of my coat, I placed them on the table.

He frowned, puzzled, but didn't dare speak.

I opened the door and prepared to ascend the steps to street level.

"Oh, and Merry Christmas," I threw nonchalantly over my shoulder and exited.

A few drunks were weaving their way down the street so I had to walk at human speed to avoid notice. I was halfway down the block before the thief, whose name I still didn't know, yelped in joy. He'd finally found the courage to open the folder.

I made my way back to the Kendalls' home with a smile on my face. The door was locked up tight, and I wasn't about to disturb Mary or her son by ringing the bell, not in the middle of the night after a robbery. I laid the gifts on the porch and tucked the apology note under one of the ribbons.

There was no way to ensure that a passerby didn't re-steal them so I settled down next to a large snow covered shrub across the street and watched over them. Sleeping minds were much easier to deal with, and I amused myself by eavesdropping on the dreamers in the house at my back.

The sky began to lighten, signaling the coming dawn. I'd wait until just before full dawn then leave quickly in case the cloud cover decreased. Sometimes morning dawned clear after a midnight snow storm.

Footsteps echoed at the far end of the street. Curious, I raised my head and caught the man's thoughts. He was remembering the train ride, the jostle of the passengers, and his total inability to sleep on the way back home.

As he came closer, I saw that he was a bit taller than average with grey blue eyes, bloodshot with lack of sleep, and sandy blonde hair sticking out from under a grey hat and shapeless overcoat.

I moved back into the shrub, expecting him to walk past, but he surprised me by turning into the Kendall house's front gate. He paused on the porch, confused as his mind registered the gifts piled in front of the door. When he put his key into the lock it didn't work.

Even more puzzled now, he lifted his hand and knocked, glancing up and down the street to reassure himself that he was at the right house.

So this was Albert.

Mary, Mrs. Kendall, woke and ran down the stairs, moving aside the curtains of the parlor window to see who was at her door. Her face changed completely at the sight of her husband.

She threw open the door and practically fell into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. Her thoughts were a mass of joy and relief.

Albert's echoed her joy, but registered bemusement at her reaction.

"Mary dear, I was only gone for three nights," he murmured into her hair. The top of her head only came up to his shoulder, and she'd pressed her cheek against his chest. "And what are these gifts doing on the porch?" 

"Gifts?"

She pulled back from her fierce embrace, only just noticing the pile at her feet. Her mouth opened into an 'O' of surprise.

"They're back? Someone brought them back?"

Albert shook his head as he knelt to pick up the basket of raggedly wrapped gifts.

"I take it there's a story behind all of this?" he asked ruefully while standing up again.

She nodded and shivered in the open doorway.

"What was I thinking?" he asked himself rhetorically and nodded behind her. "Mary, please go inside, you'll catch your death of cold out here."

A smile broke out on her face, the dimples appearing in each cheek.

"Nothing bad can happen when you're here," she said and the love and adoration in her eyes made Albert go weak in the knees.

He leaned down and kissed both her cheeks gently, brushing his lips on each dimple.

"Come inside," he whispered, his thoughts venturing into realms I'd really rather not witness.

They were married, after all. Still, there were some images I'd rather not carry away with me so I fled as soon as the door closed behind them.

o-o-o

I was sitting at the piano playing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" when Carlisle came through the door.

His thoughts were careful, but he couldn't help the surge of happiness at hearing me making use of the sheet music he'd brought home.

"Welcome back," I said lightly, continuing to play the song to the end.

"I almost didn't make it back," Carlisle admitted. "Dr. Harrow nearly put us on the wrong train. We barely made it. I was hoping to be home by Christmas at least," he continued, making a joke of it.

He began to wonder if I was softening my attitude towards the holiday and reconnecting with human traditions. Perhaps I was beginning to see the value of Christmas?

"You could say that," I answered his unspoken question.

I thought of Mary and Albert, happily reunited with the prospects of gifts on Christmas morning. Even the thief would have a merry Christmas because of me. I wasn't entirely sure how I should feel about that, but if I were honest, I felt good.

"Did something happen while I was gone?" asked Carlisle, trying to read the expression on my face.

"Let's just say that I caught a little bit of the Christmas spirit," I said and smiled.

The End.


End file.
